


The Highest of Arts

by Maidenjedi



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-04 12:02:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maidenjedi/pseuds/Maidenjedi
Summary: Laurie's influence benefits those he loves, though he hardly knows it is happening.





	The Highest of Arts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Missy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/gifts).

> "To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts." - Henry David Thoreau

Laurie took his duties very seriously.

He was sure that, if he stated such to Grandfather and Mr. Brooke, he would be met with derisive sneers or muffled scoffs, for he could admit that he defined duty very differently than did those men, or at least sought to practice it in different ways. Grandfather would have him meet expectations set for another generation. Mr. Brooke would have him shine as an academic. Both sought to mold Laurie into a young man in the fashion they viewed young men.

For himself, Laurie would wish just a dash of each elder’s philosophy, and more of his own. That was his reasoning for being at the March household before the proper calling hour, sharing weak tea and sugarless treats with the young ladies of the manse.

Since his arguably ignominious homecoming, and subsequent shutting-away, Laurie had struggled mightily with his identity. Not that he recognized the restlessness within himself in such a way. He just knew he didn’t sleep very well, couldn’t settle to the piano or music, couldn’t concentrate on Plato and Aristotle, wasn’t interested in whatever society his grandfather’s home offered. He relished the out-of-doors, breathing in bracingly cold air for whatever length of time Brooke would allow. And the day he met Miss Josephine March, he’d begun to know something more like peace.

Orchard House had always been there; he had a vague memory of it from years before, on a visit of some kind, and so he recognized the gate, the trees. He had no previous memory of the March family, however; they had long traveled in different circles than the Laurences, but also, the girls had been full young for society, as had Laurie. There was no reason for the Marches’ hearth to feel so home-like, no reason for their society to sooth and comfort.

Yet.

The tea and treats were declared capital, everything charming and warm; Hannah moved in the kitchen and Laurie knew she heard. Jo, characteristically buoyant, declared it could not be otherwise; Meg smiled, Amy preened, and Beth blushed. Laurie was captivated by each in turn. No polite inclinations of heads for the March girls, oh no. They were pleased and let him know it.

From there they all trooped up to the attic, Laurie bringing up the rear, having a moment to reflect a bit. He was not prone to such fits, preferring not to think on such weighty ideas as motivation. But he did wonder, suddenly, what it was that he felt when here.

Laughter and mayhem ahead, he only had a moment. But childhood was the word he very suddenly heard. Love. Family.

Laurie would not be able to articulate it for years, and probably never voiced it aloud, but here, at fifteen, blemishes beginning to appear on his face and voice still betraying his youth at times, Laurie felt like a boy.

As he took the stairs carefully behind Beth, not wanting to overtake her, he swallowed hard. Tears had pricked his eyes. Orchard House, in short acquaintance, had become a childhood home for him.

In the attic, the girls took their places as solemnly as churchgoers, and Laurie followed their lead. The Pickwick Society was called to order, and Laurie’s spine straightened as his heart filled. 

-

He was a brother to them, a playmate, and it was enough at this age, arrested as it became in the cocoon of the March girls’ innocence. Laurie’s thoughts did not tend to romance, though his education would certainly encourage that, and not long from now. Even Grandfather had backed off preaching about marriageability, furthering the family line, the duty of a young Laurence. No, there was a softening even there, and Brooke was no less affected. The three of them, bachelors, confirmed and budding alike, felt a settling around the March family.

It was no less on the other side of the fence. Anxieties Mrs. March had not given voice to were relieved; there was a protector, should the worst happen, and friends, no matter the future. None of the girls had been much drawn into society, not even pretty Meg, and while that would change and soon, the Laurences would provide respectability that had been sore lacking and threatened ever to collapse altogether. For the girls themselves, while Mr. Laurence and Mr. Brooke provided a needed male presence, it was Laurie they were most indebted to. 

Meg, fretting over a ruined petticoat or shoes, was laughed out of her pique, given pretty compliments that filled tiny fissures in her heart put there by gossip or snickering peers. 

Amy had a male model for sculpting adventures, true. But she also had the benefit of a somewhat trained eye on her amateur works, and an air of polish and poise to aspire to, instead of making up as she went along.

Beth, a quiet and assured mutual admirer of the household’s cats, someone who might tell her his dreams or might sit quietly, holding yarn for her to wind. 

And Jo. It is documented at length in another text how much Jo benefited from Laurie’s society. Ever wishing she could be what she was not, a kindred spirit was found in Laurie. Neither could see how they would yet find purpose, that fifteen was hardly ancient and settled. For now they were given mutual assurance that their passions were far from foolish. And if there was more comfort in apples left on desks, short letters of frustration or admonition in seasons apart, confidences over the swinging gate, and collapsing in laughter against the imposing oaks, so much the better. 

-

Childhood, like all precious things, is fleeting. 

Jo sold her hair, flew at Laurie in a passion she would regret and he would treasure, but she would also gain confidence, poise when least expected.

Amy grew taller, more beautiful than her sisters, tinged with an elegant melancholy for all her revelation of self.

Meg would allow stains on her petticoat and tears in her gloves to go unattended, the worth of pretty things hardly mattering after the underbelly was exposed.

Beth would see the light of heaven, but before that, could see the reflection of that light where others did not, and had less need of dreams, her own or others’. 

Laurie would, in his deepest heart, lament that he became more attracted to Plato than Dickens. He would never fully accept Grandfather’s ideas of duty, but he would learn from Mr. March. There was time.

-

But on a cold afternoon in a winter during the war, the chilly attic called them all, and they sat in cozy company pretending at literary genius and artistic success. Pinkies aloft while holding chipped cups, ratty half-knitted scarves wrapped around their throats. Laughter loud and unapologetic, all the richer for the fifth note in the chorus, heretofore unlamented only because they had not realized it was missing.

Downstairs, Marmee came home, and Hannah poured her a hot drink. The mingled voices from above took the sting from a day traipsing in muddy snow, the hollow gaze of Mrs. Hummel, the begging hands of others still. It was early yet, and likely the day would stretch with more of the same, so she could only stop for a moment to hear her girls and that dear boy in their unaffected, and unknowing, play. But it was enough.

Later, Laurie would all but skip back through the gate, plans afoot for a mailbox between the houses, the purpose to share the secrets they could not on days apart. Upstairs, Mr. Brooke saw his pupil’s progress, and he carefully laid Plato to the side, knowing they would not get far today. He looked through the books available and chose a fictional tome, thinking it a good day for that sort, instead.

His eyes gleaming and his cheeks ruddy, Laurie entered Grandfather’s house in a state that might have been reproved. Old Mr. Laurence saw the boy’s countenance and any reproof died in his throat. For a boy he still was, and how that had been forgotten, none could say. 

The household was as stiff as ever, most would say, but the occupants felt the air move and their hearts lightened, and they knew there was change.

-

Across the yard, through the window in Orchard House’s modest parlor, four girls sat at their sewing, chaos gone from their systems, discontent banished.

The young Mr. Theodore Laurence’s influence was yet felt.


End file.
